Deadly Shores (13 page)

“Not if you remain here, as regent, to prevent it,” Rebecca said reasonably, but Bates's eyes bulged from their sockets at the suggestion she might go without him. “I will have sufficient protection,” she assured before he could speak, and looked squarely at Sister Audry. “Particularly now that
you
have raised me yet another loyal regiment of already seasoned troops!”

“
I
didn't raise them, Your Majesty,” Sister Audry demurred modestly before she caught Rebecca's intent stare. “But . . . you cannot mean!”

“Indeed. It is
your
regiment, Sister Audry, yours to lead and command!”

“This is utter madness, my dear!” Audry exclaimed. “I have no notion whatsoever of military affairs!”

“You know who the true enemy is,” Rebecca countered relentlessly, “which is more than many of my more formally trained commanders did for some time.” She looked at Garcia. “And who better to lead them? Whom do they revere more?”

Garcia seemed stunned as well, but finally nodded. “Sister Audry came to us as a prophet, and she raised our souls from the sickening pit in which they dwelt. Speaking for myself and all my men, you could not appoint another leader over us to whom we would be more devoted. We will follow and protect her like the prophet she is!”

“Never fear,” Rebecca added to the flabbergasted nun. “You shall have sufficient help. I'm sure Sergeant Koratin, for one, will be pleased to remain with you and can certainly deal with many of your administrative and training duties.”

“Of course,” Koratin said, blinking amusement. He wondered if he alone recognized the brilliance of the Governor-Empress's scheme. With Audry commanding the regiment, not only would the chance of treachery from the ranks be even less likely; Audry had the chance to redeem not only the former Doms under her command, but her very church in the eyes of the Imperial subjects. There was no real association between the true Catholic Church and the superficial similarities the Doms had adopted, but far too many of Rebecca's people didn't understand the distinctions.

“It's all settled, then,” Rebecca said grandly. “Factor Bates? Would you kindly send for more refreshments?” She smiled at Sister Audry with a trace of her old, girlish enthusiasm. “We must propose a proper toast to the formation of our newest regiment. I wonder what we should call it.”

//////
First Fleet South

1100 Miles South of Ceylon

June 30, 1944

T
he sky remained dazzlingly clear for the third day in a row above the white, gust-swept wave tops that marbled the cerulean sea. Most of the DDs and support ships constituting USNRS
Salissa
's battle group and the other accumulated vessels that rounded out the task force plodded creditably through the brisk swells at a modest but workmanlike eight knots. From the surface, the collection of ships appeared a formidable force. To one of the Nancy floatplanes returning from a long-range scout, however, the task force looked more like a scattered, lonely atoll in the center of an endless, empty sea.

The DDs and all sail DEs could've easily made much more of the strong, southerly wind. Even
Salissa
, lightened as she'd been, could've comfortably made ten or twelve knots. But the tenders—and particularly the oilers—were having a little trouble. Some of the screening DDs could gallop along unrestrained, scouting ahead or on the flanks of the task force, pounding the depths with powerful sonar pulses to deter any lurking mountain fish that might pose a threat to the fleet. But the ship most grievously inhibited by the poky advance at the moment was USS
Walker
. She was steaming carefully alongside
Salissa
, her helmsman straining to match her every move and compensate for the suction, the thumping waves, conflicting wakes, and the old destroyer's erratic pitching. Matt was on the port bridgewing, watching the narrow gap between his ship and
Salissa
with apparent calm. If someone had noticed his right hand gripping the rail beside the Morse lamp, however, they'd have seen his knuckles were white.

Their own experiments, and others performed before the Old War that Matt was aware of, had shown that steaming this close was actually easier at a greater speed of ten to fifteen knots, when the ships could more easily compensate for the suction generated between them. But Matt was determined that they practice the maneuver at all speeds and in various sea states. So far, the results were decidedly mixed.

“No, no,
no
, goddamn it!” roared the terrible Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray down on the fo'c'sle below. “Who told you to secure those taglines? Cast 'em off!” For an instant, some of the mostly Lemurian detail just stared at him, but then a couple scampered to obey. Fortunately, the lines were still slack, but the instant they were released,
Walker
's bow pitched down and some of the lines—and a fat cable hawser—whipped up into the sky like flying snakes, and then lashed the sea alongside. Gray's face was purple with rage. “What the hell do you think you're doin'?” he ranted. “You can't
secure
the goddamn hose to the ship! How many times've I gotta pound it through your pointy little ears?”

“But it get away!” a tall 'Cat cried back in frustration, gesturing over the side.

“
Course
it's gonna get away, the way that stripy-assed idiot strikin' for QM's steerin' the ship!” Gray bellowed with an almost pleading glance back up at the captain. “But if it wants to get away that bad, you gotta let it go! We've got a springline on it an' it won't get
plumb
away. But you secure it to the ship and it's liable to part—or worse!” He closed his eyes. “When I look again, you better be outa my sight! Go secure your twitchy tail to a
signal halyard
an' hoist your stupid ass to the foremast yard!” He opened one eye to find the dumbfounded 'Cat just staring at him. He sighed. “Too many newies,” he lamented. “Too many old hands got sent off to
Mahan
, right when we need 'em most.” He whirled. “You! Gyrene! What was your name?”

“Lance Corporal Miles, Bosun. Ian Miles,” answered a tall, thin man with dark hair. Gray remembered Miles's name perfectly well, but wasn't impressed. He'd been with Commander Herring in the Philippines, along with Gunny Horn, but he acted like that still meant something. Horn had slipped into the role of Silva's chief minion, an association he'd obviously been comfortable with in a previous life, but if that didn't necessarily recommend him, it made him useful. Miles struck Gray as a slacker, with no intention of truly becoming part of
Walker
's company. Gray took that personally. Also, despite Herring's apparent conversion to the cause and his sincere desire to become a “real” destroyerman, Lance Corporal Miles maintained an oddly confidential relationship with him that Commander Herring didn't seem to discourage. Maybe that was normal, after all they'd been through together, but Gray suspected Miles was milking it. He didn't reflect on his own close friendships with officers, and indeed the very highest ranking leaders of the Grand Alliance. He always kept that in perspective, and diligently ensured that it never interfered with the chain of command.

“
You
take over the detail,” he ordered, “and you better do it right. You've sat on your ass an' watched it done often enough. Make yourself useful for a change. Ain't no full-time Marines on
this
ship, with their dainty gloves an' such! Clap onto that hawser when they shift it back—I mean the ‘hose,' damn it! And pretend there's a storm comin' and we're slap out of fuel!” He rounded on the others. “If there's any more mistakes, they better come from the pilothouse, an' not my damn division!”

Matt smiled faintly as he watched the little drama, thankful that amid all the change they'd endured in the past couple of years, Chief Gray was always there to provide a sense of continuity.

“Not going so well?” asked Spanky, rather delicately, over his shoulder.

“No, no, it's fine. Just a few bugs. Mr. Rosen?” he said, turning to Chief Quartermaster “Paddy” Rosen. “Take the helm, if you please. Mr. Herring, you still have the conn.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I still have the conn!” Herring announced a little self-consciously. Matt nodded reassuringly at him, and caught himself
liking
Herring at last. He was glad the pedantic intelligence officer was genuinely doing his very best to learn the art of shiphandling. He hoped the new attitude would help him become a better, more levelheaded analyst as well. Rosen stepped beside the foam-sweaty 'Cat at the big brass wheel. “I relieve you, sir.”

“I staand veery relieved!” gasped the 'Cat, and Matt had to stifle a grin. Looking up, he watched as one of
Big Sal
's seaplane-lifting booms raised the heavy hawser back out of the sea. The hawser was standing in for a fueling hose for this drill. Slowly, carefully, the boom came down, leaving the end of the hawser dangling just in front of the bridge. Chief Gray roared again, and taglines brought the heavy cable near where a fueling hose would have to be in order to transfer oil into the ship's bunkers. Miraculously, this time, they managed to maintain station for almost eleven minutes. Miles held the cable end coiled on the deck while others on both ships worked to keep the proper tension on the “hose” and boom as
Walker
capered alongside the relatively motionless
Salissa
.

Suddenly,
Walker
's bow took another unexpected plunge, and seawater coursed across the fo'c'sle, knocking a couple of 'Cats to the deck. Miles was almost yanked off the ship before releasing the cable, and he watched it whip into the sky. Then he shot the Bosun what might've been a resentful smirk before he shrugged.

“Well,” Matt said, looking at his watch in disappointment. “Eleven minutes. That's something. Secure from underway fueling. Mr. Palmer, signal
Big Sal
and thank Admiral Keje for his cooperation. Tell him we're finished for now, and we'll resume our screening pattern.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” replied Lieutenant Ed Palmer, moving behind the Morse lamp as Matt stepped back into the pilothouse. A light flashed on
Salissa
, and the young signals officer grimaced. “Admiral Keje says ‘anytime,' and ‘we must all do what we can to avoid the tedium of this voyage,' and his people ‘enjoy fishing for
Walker
very much!' His words, sir.”

“Oh crap,” Spanky grumbled. “That's just mean. Look, sir, you know how I like my—I mean
Tabby
's—bunkers: fat an' happy. But we already proved we can replenish when the sea's not up so high. And we've been doing it alongside
Big Sal
when she's stationary for two damn years! Why've we gotta keep humiliating ourselves? Hell, nobody back home had even really perfected a stunt like this when we left!”

“No, but they'd been working on it for twenty years because it's a valuable capability.” Matt frowned. “And maybe I just don't like the idea of being a sitting duck. We're going an awful long way from home again, and nobody we know has even been there to tell us what to expect this time—except one lost Jap. Besides”—Matt shrugged—“like Keje said, it passes the time.”

“Keje asks if you'll be over to dine with him—and your, uh, ‘mate'—this evening,” Palmer interjected.

“It's my pleasure, as always,” Matt replied in a softer tone. “Now,” he said, more businesslike, “resume standard screening pattern, if you please, Mr. Herring. You have the deck and the conn. Mr. McFarlane and I will be in the wardroom.”

“I have the deck and the conn,” Herring declared. “Standard screening pattern, aye.”

Matt nodded and turned toward the stairs at the back of the bridge.

“I know what you're really worried about,” Spanky gruffed quietly, conspiratorially, following him down the metal steps, and then down the companionway leading between the officers' staterooms toward the wardroom.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Matt grumbled. As always, the smells assailing them as soon as they left the open air were overwhelming. Sour sweat and mildew were all-pervading, but so were other things like hot linoleum, fuel oil, and those vague but distinct odors of brass, iron, paint, and rust. They were used to the smells, of course, but that didn't mean they never noticed them. Worst of all perhaps, as they passed through the embroidered curtain into the wardroom, was the stench emanating from the officers' coffeepot as they drew near.

“Sure you do,” McFarlane insisted.

Instead of replying, Matt, his expression grim, raised the lid on the pot and looked inside. “My God. I know it's against tradition to wash these things and all, but it's not like Juan has real coffee to ruin. Juan!” he shouted, being uncharacteristically harsh. A few moments later, Juan Marcos, the peg-legged, self-appointed chief steward for the commander in chief of all Allied forces, stumped into the compartment from the chief's quarters forward, his small, Filipino face aggrieved.

“Cap-tan?”

Matt calmed himself and closed the lid. “Could you make some more coffee, Juan . . . and maybe slosh a little of the foam out of this thing first?”

“Of course, Cap-tan,” Juan said, a little stiffly, taken aback. Juan treated Matt and all the officers very well, and nobody ever criticized him but the fat cook, Earl Lanier. But suddenly, Matt's tone and expression implied reproach. Juan snatched the pot and stumped out of the wardroom with remarkable poise and agility, considering his condition and the continued pitching of the ship.

“Kind of hard on the little guy, weren't you, Skipper?” Spanky said. “Yeah,” he decided. “You're worried about that pigboat Silva saw!”

“I'm not worried about something that's probably not even out there,” Matt denied.

“Who says it isn't? Why can't there be another pigboat somewhere on this creepy world? Hell,
we
used to have one!”

Matt took a breath, glad Laumer was on
Big Sal
. He was still taking the loss of his sub-turned-torpedo-boat hard. “Then I guess what I'm saying is, we don't know what it was—if it was anything. And Silva
didn't
see it. Frankly, weird as it sounds, I'd feel better if he had. Gunny Horn seems reliable enough, but when has he ever seen a periscope? Silva's likely right. It was probably some kind of fin. All those idiots were mixed up with a bunch of weird fish at the time. Who knows what kind of fin might've been sticking up?”

“Courtney didn't think it was a fin,” Spanky reminded.

“He didn't see it.”

“No, but he said there wasn't anything around that had a fin any ‘thinking being,' as he said, could possibly mistake for a periscope.”

“So, he's insulting Horn
or
Silva—not that either would care. But whose side is he on?” Matt demanded, frustrated. He'd been furious when he heard about the latest “Silva Stunt,” and it had put him in a bad position. Dennis Silva had just recently out-heroed himself and deserved all their gratitude—but then he turned around and disobeyed a long-standing, direct order; something Matt had been fairly sure Silva wouldn't ever do again. That Lanier was the instigator didn't even signify. He was a lost cause; only marginally useful—any of his mess attendants could take over as cook—and only barely tolerable anymore. But Matt had grown to rely on Silva far more than he'd realized, and Courtney's reckless, irresponsible participation had been icing on the cake. That was why Courtney was on
Big Sal
right now instead of
Walker
: he was on probation. Not that such a banishment was really a punishment;
Big Sal
was much more comfortable, and there was a great deal more for Courtney to do aboard her. But the implied threat was that he had better shape up if he wanted to join
Walker
again when something “interesting” was in the works.

Matt still had to figure out what punishment he'd inflict on the other miscreants—right at a time when they'd embarked on perhaps their most audacious, precarious, and with Adar along, potentially
ambiguous
operation of the war! For obvious reasons, he had a lot on his mind. His, and the other ships in the task force were in reasonably good shape, but they'd been handled roughly very recently. He had every confidence in Chack-Sab-At, and was sure his Raider Brigade and the PT “mosquito fleet” would be ready to go when they reached Diego Garcia, but he wasn't sure exactly what else he'd find when they got there. “Lemurian” aborigines! Representatives of an extremely strange power also opposing the Grik! A Japanese refugee from
Amagi
, who claimed actual personal knowledge of Grik Madagascar! How would all that come together?